


Getting a Reaction

by Neurofancier



Category: Silicon Valley (TV)
Genre: Canon Typical Behavior, Gilfoyle being an edgelord, Karaoke, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Racism, Redemption, fortnite
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-27
Updated: 2018-12-02
Packaged: 2019-05-29 14:51:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15075500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neurofancier/pseuds/Neurofancier
Summary: FINAL CHAPTER IS NOW UP!Dinesh is kissing a man.It's not Gilfoyle.When Dinesh gets a boyfriend, Gilfoyle is forced to confront some truths about himself.





	1. The One with the Kiss

**Author's Note:**

> N/A: Gilfoyle uses a lot of problematic language in this story. That said, I did my best to stay true to the tone of the show and not have Gilfoyle do anything I could not see canon!Gilfoyle doing. If you want a more detailed list of trigger warnings, you can find one at the bottom.
> 
> The views of the character(s) do not reflect the views of the author. In this story even more so than usual.

Dinesh is kissing a man.

A few minutes ago, Gilfoyle had seen him furtively checking his phone. Dinesh had saved what he had been working on, grabbed his jacket, and gotten up and out of the office without saying goodbye to anyone. In fact, he had been in such a hurry to leave that he hadn’t even grabbed his messenger bag on his way out. It had been painfully obvious that Dinesh was hiding something. Smelling an opportunity to make fun of him, Gilfoyle had followed him out.

Only to find him outside the building, kissing a man.

He’s really going at it, too, cheap rom-com heroine style, arms around the guy’s neck and eyes closed. He has to stand on his toes to reach him, Gilfoyle notices. It’s hilarious.

This is going to be fun, Gilfoyle thinks, leaning on the wall. It’s been a while since the last time he had something new to mock Dinesh about. He idly wonders what Dinesh will do once he realizes that Gilfoyle has caught him red-handed. How will he react? Will he blush? Panic? Wet his pants? Gilfoyle hopes he’ll do all three.

Eventually, Dinesh and the guy stop kissing. Dinesh has the most pathetic little smile on his lips. He doesn’t notice Gilfoyle right away, busy talking in hushed tones with the man he had been kissing. But that’s okay. Humans are pursuit predators. Gilfoyle can wait.

Or not, he thinks, as the guy murmurs something that makes Dinesh giggle like a schoolgirl. Yeah, fuck having to witness this nonsense for one second longer. He’s bored already. He clears his throat, loudly enough that Dinesh finally looks his way.

Gilfoyle smirks at him.

Dinesh’s eyes widen as he recognizes him, looking like the proverbial deer in the headlights. Gilfoyle settles back to watch, ready for what is probably going to be one classic Dinesh freak-out.

And then Dinesh does something that surprises him.

Instead of sputtering excuses, or running away, or crying… Dinesh takes a deep breath, rises to his full, unimpressive height, and meets Gilfoyle’s gaze head on.

He looks almost… defiant. 

Odd.

“Everything alright, mate?” the guy Dinesh was kissing says. 

He has a British accent. He sounds overly friendly, like someone trying to avoid a fistfight. No, more than that. He sounds like the sort of person who would unironically call a fistfight a ‘row'.

“Don’t mind him, it’s just Gilfoyle,” Dinesh says, like he’s an annoyance he’s used to dealing with. “Did you want something, or were you planning on standing there like a creep, spying on me and my _boyfriend_?”

There it is again, that same defiance.

Very odd.

“Dream on, Chugtai.” Gilfoyle snorts. “In your rush to come downstair to make out with Mister Bean here, you left your bag upstairs. I came down here to warn you.”

Benedict Cumberbatch looks at him up and down. “I see you didn’t bring it down with you.”

“Very perceptive of you,” Gilfoyle says.

“Ugh. Typical.” Dinesh rolls his eyes. And then he—Very, very odd—pecks Captain Britannia on the lips. “Sorry, Liam. I’ll go get it. Be right back.”

He walks by Gilfoyle on his way in. Gilfoyle watches him go.

“So,” bargain bin Hugh Grant says, “you’re that Gilfoyle, then.”

He says it with a tone. That Gilfoyle. As in that Gilfoyle Dinesh has been warning him about. As in that Gilfoyle he already strongly disapproves of. That one.

“Yup,” Gilfoyle says, and takes pleasure in confirming whatever assumptions the man had made about him.

“Charming,” Paddington Bear gives him a terse smile.

“And you,” Gilfoyle lifts his chin, “must be the guy whose cock Dinesh likes to gargle on.”

“Why, yes,” the man bares his teeth at him. Gilfoyle thinks he gets where Dinesh got his new defiance from, now. “That’s me.”

They watch each other in silence.

Dinesh bumps Gilfoyle’s shoulder with his own as he passes him on his way out of the building.

“Okay, I have it.” Dinesh lifts his messenger bag in the air to show him. “We’re ready to go.”

“Excellent. I think you’ll rather enjoy this place.” Henry VIII laces their fingers together. “Pleasure to meet you, Gilfoyle.”

“Likewise,” Gilfoyle shots back, but Dinesh and him are already walking away, hand in hand.

Dinesh doesn’t look back.

-

“Spit it,” Gilfoyle says the following day, sitting backwards on his rolling chair.

“Spit what?” Dinesh says, and deletes the last line of code he wrote.

“That guy. King’s Speech. Tea and Crumpets. Your boyfriend.” Gilfoyle raises his voice slightly on the last word, to get the attention of a couple of their minions. “I know you’re dying to tell me about him, so you might as well do it now.” 

“There’s nothing to say.” Dinesh types something, frowns, and deletes what he just wrote, too. “We met a few weeks ago. We hit it off. We are dating.”

“So what, after all these years denying your thirst for dick you finally admit you’re gay?”

Gilfoyle can tell Dinesh is trying to mask his reaction to those words, but he can’t quite hide a wince. 

And yet, when he turns to look at Gilfoyle, it’s with the same air of defiance that he wore yesterday. “Yes.”

Really odd.

“Should I get you a rainbow pin?” Gilfoyle says. “Buy you a pair of booty shorts? Ask Jared to run a sexual diversity in the workplace workshop?”

“Why,” Jared says from somewhere behind them. “I’d love to!”

Gilfoyle and Dinesh both ignore him. “That won’t be necessary,” Dinesh says primly.

Dinesh makes a Git commit and gets up, empty mug in his fist. Gilfoyle watches him, following him with his eyes as Dinesh goes to the kitchenette to prepare himself a fresh cup coffee.

“I should print some leaflets for the workshop,” Jared says, checking something on his tablet. “Mmh, I’ll have to make some adjustments to our diversity training budget.”

“You do that,” Gilfoyle says, and gets off his chair. 

Gilfoyle has some research to do.

-

It takes him approximately twenty seconds to figure out Dinesh’s new password and infiltrate his laptop and smartphone. How someone who used to date a hacker has such a poor grasp of cybersecurity, Gilfoyle will never know.

Dinesh’s boytoy’s full name is Liam Charles Arkwright, and it’s almost too much of a cliché to be funny. According to his LinkedIn profile, his Facebook, and half a dozen other social media accounts where he chooses to publicly post his personal information, he works in the HR department of a local IT consulting firm. He also has a background on diversity training, so hey, looks like Jared won’t have to be the one to do that workshop after all. His Twitter feed is full of opinions about Black Mirror and Star Trek: Discovery. According to his Instagram, his hobbies include cycling in the most fucking dorky unitard in the world, and posting awful inspirational quotes.

Also according to his Instagram, he’s known Dinesh for at least a month, and has taken several coupley pictures with him.

“Are you checking Instagram instead of deploying the new version of the API?” Richard asks him, as Gilfoyle is inspecting a photo of him and Dinesh at a wine tasting event. Dinesh doesn’t even like wine. 

“No,” Gilfoyle replies, and keeps scrolling. 

Eventually, Richard takes the hint and leaves.

-

Teasing Dinesh about his relationship with Fish and Chips quickly becomes his new favorite pastime.

On Wednesday, Dinesh makes a point of asking everyone in the office if they know of any nice, romantic restaurants.

“Liam is taking me on a date tonight,” Dinesh brags. Loudly.

“You know what would be nice?” Gilfoyle says. “Taking him to a cardboard factory. That way he’ll get a taste of his own regional cuisine.”

Without missing a beat, Dinesh asks Holden to make reservations for them at a local Vietnamese restaurant.

On Friday, he catches Dinesh telling a very bored Priyanka about the spa Downtown Abbey is planning to take him to that weekend.

“That is so thoughtful of him,” Gilfoyle interrupts them. “That way once you’re done polishing his knob you can perform those ritualistic ablutions your people have to do every time you ejaculate.”

Priyanka looks at him like she’s seconds away from slapping him, but Dinesh doesn’t so much as glance his way.

On Monday, he shows up at work wearing a button-down shirt and chinos that actually fit him.

“Liam took me shopping,” he tells a very disinterested Richard, who is too focused on the script he’s writing to hear a word of what he’s saying. “It’s not really my style, but he did say I looked very ‘dashing’.” He seems extremely proud of that.

“Nice to see he has you dressing like you’re going to the House of Commons,” Gilfoyle says. “Maybe you can persuade him to wear a burqa, make the cultural exchange complete.”

Richard looks at him like he either ate a frog or is turning into one himself. “Gilfoyle, what the hell.”

And once again, Dinesh doesn’t react.

By that point, it has become something of a game for Gilfoyle. It’s just so funny to watch Dinesh try to keep his shit together as he insults him. It’s only a matter of time before he loses cool and embarrasses himself in front of everyone.

Gilfoyle is going to enjoy getting there.

-

Three weeks after he first watched Dinesh kissing a man, Gilfoyle gets into the elevator as the doors are closing. Dinesh sighs and holds onto the strap of his own messenger bag.

“You’re leaving early,” Gilfoyle says.

“You’re leaving, too,” Dinesh points out. He doesn’t sound annoyed so much as bored. “At the same time I am. Just saying.”

“Are you going to James Bond’s cottage?” Gilfoyle say.

Dinesh doesn’t reply. That’s a yes.

“Do you think he’s going to butter your scone tonight?” Gilfoyle teases him. He can see Dinesh taking a deep breath, trying to calm himself down. All the more reason to press on. “Make you his bum bandit? Visit your Hobbit-hole? Bend you like Beckham?” 

“It’s really none of your business,” Dinesh snaps at him, and Gilfoyle thinks, finally. “But yes. Yes, I’m going to my boyfriend’s condo, and we’re probably going to fuck tonight. And you know what?” In a gleeful, furtive whisper, he says: “It’s going to be amazing, because he’s hot as hell and he can do things to my dick I didn’t know were possible!”

“Not strange, considering you’re practically a virgin,” Gilfoyle’s quick to reply.

But Dinesh doesn’t take the bait. “I,” he says instead, “am going to get laid. I forget, Gilfoyle. When was the last time you got laid? Was it before or after Tara last visited us two years ago? You know, before she broke up with you?”

“First of all, I broke up with her.” Gilfoyle narrows his eyes at him. “Second, I can get laid any time I want to.” Dinesh smirks knowingly. “I can,” he insists.

The doors open. Dinesh steps out of the elevator. Gilfoyle watches him leave the building. The doors start to close once again. 

Gilfoyle doesn’t do anything to stop them.

-

The club has shitty music, overpriced drinks, a terrible selection of beer, and about three men for every woman in attendance, but according to Local Guides it’s the right place to go to if you want to get laid in Palo Alto.

Gilfoyle leans against the wall, sipping something that tastes like malty urine, and makes eyes at a petite brunette by the bar. Eventually, the girl grabs her drink and heads toward him. 

Gilfoyle inwardly smirks. Yeah, he knew he still had it, he thinks as he watches her approach him. Wait until he tells Dinesh about this.

“Hey,” says the girl as she reaches him.

“Hey.” He nods his head at her.

“So you’re going to quit it with the fucking staring or what?” she says.

Gilfoyle freezes. “What.”

“Quit it with the staring. You’ve been looking at me for half an hour.”

“I haven’t.” It was more like twenty minutes.

“Yeah, right.” She snorts. “Tell that to your Incel support group.”

She spins on her heels and leaves. She disappears in the dance floor.

Gilfoyle pushes himself off the wall and takes his phone out of his pocket. He calls an Uber. Time to go home.

-

The following morning, when Dinesh sits down, he hisses through his teeth.

“Sore?” Gilfoyle says. “Did mister BBC introduce you to his Prince Albert last night?”

Dinesh narrows his eyes at him. “Yes.”

After that, Gilfoyle loses interest in teasing him for the day.

-

“Now, Gilfoyle,” Jared says, a month after Gilfoyle first watched Dinesh kissing a man. “I am sure you are wondering why I asked you to join me today.”

They’re sitting in one of the conference rooms in the office, on opposite sides of the table. They’re the only people in the room.

“I thought this was going to be a code review meeting.” Gilfoyle says, already standing up to gather his laptop and leave. “If it isn’t, I’m out.”

Jared laughs. “I am afraid I can’t allow that. See, we’ve been having some complains about your racist, homophobic, and, ah,” he reads something in his own laptop, “anglophobic language.”

Gilfoyle pauses. He sits back down. Slowly, a satisfied smile appears on his face. 

He knew it. He knew his teasing was bothering Dinesh. He can pretend he's cool with it all he wants, but in the end he'll always be the same old over-sensitive loser.

"Let me guess." He crosses his arms behind his head, leaning back on his chair. "Dinesh finally snitched."

"Oh, no," Jared says. "As you know, all reports to HR are anonymous, so I'm not at liberty to say who were the people who made a complaint. But I will say this much." Jared pauses for effect. "None of them were Dinesh."

Gilfoyle frowns. "None of them."

"Yes." Jared nods.

“So you’re telling me that multiple people complained about how I’ve been busting Dinesh’s balls.”

“Yes.”

“And none of them were Dinesh.”

“I know,” Jared says. “I was surprised, too. I suppose he isn’t that bothered by your friendly teasing! Nevertheless,” he adds, “other people in the office were.”

“But not Dinesh.”

“Not enough to complain about it, no.”

“Huh.”

This is unexpected. So far, Dinesh has been doing a good job of hiding his reactions to Gilfoyle’s taunting, but he’s long overdue for a freak out. Gilfoyle had thought that by now he would have cracked. And yet, if anything, Dinesh seems to be getting better at ignoring him. Maybe he’s so busy getting laid that he no longer cares about what Gilfoyle has to say. But no, Gilfoyle thinks. Even back when Dinesh was bedding Mia, it was ridiculously easy to rile him up.

This is different. It’s almost as if…

It’s almost as if Dinesh has grown a backbone.

He doesn’t know what to do about that. Dinesh’s freakouts have been a constant source of amusement for him. He tries to picture a future where he can’t rely on making fun of him to pass the time.

“Are you okay?” Jared asks, face concerned.

Gilfoyle blinks. “What?”

“You seem distressed.” Gilfoyle stares blankly at him. “You know, Gilfoyle, this is a safe space to discuss your feelings. If there is something weighing your mind…”

Gilfoyle glares at him. “I don’t need a safe space to discuss my feelings.”

“I hear you and I acknowledge that,” Jared says, and Gilfoyle can only roll his eyes at his bullshit business coach act. “All I’m saying is that, on previous stages of Pied Piper’s development, your relationship with Dinesh used to be a source of companionship for you. In fact, I dare say we all delighted in watching your male bonding rituals take place!”

“Oh, sweet Lucifer…” Gilfoyle pinches the bridge of his nose. He’s getting a headache.

“Now that Dinesh has less time to hang out with you, it’s natural to feel…” Jared gestures with one hand. “...Jealous.”

“Jealous,” Gilfoyle repeats.

“Platonically, of course.” Jared smiles in a way that manages to give nothing away while implying a lot.

Fucking corporate people.

“I am only going to say this once,” Gilfoyle leans forward in his seat. “I don’t have feelings for Dinesh.”

“Oh, I would never say otherwise,” Jared says vaguely.

“But you think I do.”

“That’s a very interesting statement to make!” Jared intertwines his fingers. “Would you like to discuss why you think that?”

“I’m leaving.” Gilfoyle pushes his chair back.

“You’re free to do so, of course, but as I said, this is a safe place—”

He slams the door closed behind him.

Dinesh is in the kitchenette. He's showing Becky pictures of his last date with the Queen of England. Becky looks like she would rather be doing literally anything else.

"This is us at the pottery class," Dinesh is saying, shoving his phone at her. "We made a video acting out that scene from Ghost. It was so funny. I'll show you later."

"Oh, joy," Becky says laconically, stirring her coffee.

"And this is the same picture, but taken with a flash. I think I like it better, the lighting wasn't so good at the workshop." 

"I am not usually one to recommend social media," Gilfoyle says, grabbing his Satanist mug from the cupboard and filling it with coffee from the pot, "but there's this website where you can upload those pictures. You might have heard of it. It's called Facebook. Much more efficient than bullying your underlings into watching your shitty selfies."

"And this is the ashtray I made," Dinesh says, blatantly ignoring him. "And this is the same ashtray from a different angle."

"You know what's funny?" Gilfoyle takes a sip from his mug. "Just last week you were bragging about how many likes your last picture had gotten on Facebook. In fact, I remember you were specially proud of one of the comments your mom had left in it."

"And this is Liam holding his own ashtray," Dinesh swipes at his phone screen. “And this is us holding both our ashtrays.”

"Come to think of it,” Gilfoyle says, “you seem to take a lot of pleasure in your mother seeing your photos."

Dinesh is not looking at Gilfoyle. He's acting like he's not even there. But Gilfoyle knows that he's listening to him. He knows that this time he’s getting under his skin. He knows, because his shoulders are tense, and he’s holding his phone in a vice grip as he scrolls through his gallery, not even explaining to Becky what is on the screen anymore.

He's close to cracking, Gilfoyle thinks.

"I wonder why you don't want her to see these pictures," Gilfoyle continues. "Could it be because she's a very conservative Muslim?"

Becky shoots him a sharp look.

"And this," Dinesh's voice is brittle with forced enthusiasm, "is my ashtray after it came out of the oven! Fun fact, you can't bake clay in a regular oven!"

"I forget,” Gilfoyle leans forward, like a hound smelling blood, ready for the kill, “what is it that your people do to homosexuals?"

Becky gasps.

Dinesh’s fingers are tight around his phone. He's so close to cracking. So close. 

"Is it stoning?" Gilfoyle presses on. "It's usually stoning."

Dinesh finally, finally looks at him. He looks mad. Murderously so.

It's perfect.

It’s not enough.

"Or,” Gilfoyle says, “do you think your mother will just kick you out of the family?" 

Talk to me, he thinks. Come on. Fight back.

"Gilfoyle!" Becky gasp.

Gilfoyle pays her no mind. There's only one person he cares about, right now.

"Tell me," Gilfoyle pronounces each word slowly, savouring the fury in Dinesh's face, his furrowed brow and clenched teeth. Savouring his attention. "How does it feel to know your loving mother would turn her back on you if she knew about _Liam_?"

Dinesh pushes him. Gilfoyle gets the wind knocked out of him. His mug falls to the ground and shatters. Coffee splashes everywhere. He can feel a bruise forming on the small of his back where it hit the counter. Dinesh grips him by the shirt, pins him there.

"You," Dinesh hisses, so angry he seems to be having trouble finding the right words. "You."

Dinesh’s fingers tighten around his shirt. They’re both breathing hard, faces inches away. For one wild moment, Gilfoyle thinks Dinesh is about to punch him. He's waiting for it, looking forward to it, almost. Come on, he thinks. Come on.

And then...

And then he sees the fight go out of Dinesh. He watches as Dinesh's eyes get bright and watery, his stupid, expressive face crumbling almost as in slow-motion.

Gilfoyle's stomach drops.

Dinesh blinks quickly. He releases Gilfoyle and wipes furiously at his own eyes.

"You," Dinesh says shakily, "are an asshole."

He doesn’t even storm off. That, at least, would have been satisfying. Dinesh simply wanders away, dejected, leaving Gilfoyle where he is. 

Becky is glaring daggers at him, but for once he can't even enjoy her outrage.

For the first time in years, Gilfoyle feels something suspiciously similar to guilt.

-

That night, he lies in bed in his rented studio. He’s having some trouble falling asleep. Usually when that happens he jerks off until he’s tired himself out enough to drop asleep. But tonight everytime he tries to, he thinks of Dinesh, and of Jared’s words, and of what happened at the kitchenette, and…

He doesn’t feel like jerking off.

He tosses and turns, trying to find a comfortable position to sleep in. His phone is charging on the bedside table. It must be around three am, he thinks. Close to four. He really needs to rest, or else tomorrow he won’t get anything done. He should try to sleep.

He grabs his phone.

He scrolls through some of his favorite subreddits, checks out a thread in one of the blackhat forums where he posts. He wastes ten minutes aimlessly surfing the net before finally giving in.

He taps on the Instagram icon.

He didn’t use to have an Instagram account. He still doesn’t have any pictures in his own profile. He only installed the app to more efficiently research and mock the Prime Minister. Unlike Dinesh, Posh Spice is constantly posting about their relationship on social media. It has proved to be a great source of material to tease Dinesh about. London Calling hasn’t posted anything new today, but Gilfoyle already knew that. He has set up an alert so he’ll get a push notification whenever Lord Tesco uploads anything to any of his accounts. Still, it’s worth it to check manually from time to time. 

Just in case.

He looks at the last image Draco Malfoy uploaded. This one only shows Dinesh, Earl Grey nowhere in sight. He must have been the one to take the picture. In it, Dinesh is in some impossibly pretentious coffee shop, drinking something with a lot of whipped cream in it. 

The photo is both overexposed and blurry. The flash gave Dinesh red eyes, which the crappy instagram filter that Collywobbles used did nothing to disguise. The fucker really is the world’s crappiest photographer this side of the Atlantic. He should get deported just for that.

But.

Dinesh is laughing in the picture.

It’s clear that it’s a candid shot. He managed to catch Dinesh completely by surprise, and so for once he’s not doing that stupid thing he does in all his selfies, where he tries to look interesting and cool and ends up looking like a tool, instead. In this picture Dinesh looks… relaxed. Happy. He also looks a bit dorky, but in a way that’s real and comfortable. Like maybe Dinesh feels safe being dorky around Liam.

Gilfoyle lets his hand slide under the sheets.

When he comes, all he can think of is Dinesh’s smile.


	2. The One With the Slippery Slope

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This bad boy took 24 versions to get right! From now on updates should be much faster as I already have a draft of the next two chapters.
> 
> Thanks to **anactoriatalksback** and **Jam_Sandwich** for betaing this chapter and for their cheerleading. All remaining mistakes are my own.
> 
> There's a spoilery list of trigger warnings for this chapter at the end.

"You have a lot of nerve calling me after what you did," Tara says, arms crossed in front of her chest.

"You’re still pissed about that?" Gilfoyle says.

"You put a tracer on my phone!"

The image freezes for a second, Tara’s face caught in a pixelated snarl. Fucking Hoolichat. Gilfoyle would much rather be having this conversation through the videochat service they have already set up on the New Internet. But ever since she found out about the tracer, Tara has refused to use any of Pied Piper’s tech. Whatever. She knew him, she knew about his paranoia, and she still downloaded the platform’s beta to her phone without even running any tests on it beforehand. If she hadn’t wanted him to spy on her, she really should have done her due diligence.

She also shouldn’t have been sleeping around behind his back.

"I called you, you picked up," Gilfoyle points out. "We can have a rehash of the conversation we had when we broke up, or you can answer my question."

Tara seems to consider it. Gilfoyle uses the time to look at her. She seems to be doing well for herself. There are several new swords on display on the wall behind her, so her business must be doing well. Her hair is up in a messy bun, and her top leaves her collarbones bare. She has a new tattoo under her neck, a raven with its wings spread. She used to be so beautiful. She still is, if he’s honest with himself. But it’s hard to feel attracted to someone who looks at him like he’s scum.

Or it should be, he thinks as he remembers how Dinesh looks at him now.

"Okay," she finally says. "What is it?"

Better to get it out of the way as quickly as possible. "Did you know that I was attracted to men when we were together?"

"Yes," she doesn’t even stop to think about her answer. "Wait. Was that it? That was your life-or-death question? Are you kidding me?" With a frustrated groan, she covers her face with her hands. "You’ve gone to queer mixers with me!"

"Yes. Because sometimes you convinced your girlfriends to have a threesome with us." Obviously.

"I can’t believe ever I dated you." She shakes her head, disdain clear in her face. "I’m hanging up."

"Wait." She pauses, her hand on the mouse. "How did you know?"

"Oh, Gilfoyle." Her expression goes from disgusted to pitying. He had forgotten how empathetic she could be. He always hated that about her. "What does it matter? You’re a Satanist. Self-indulgence is a virtue, not a sin."

Gilfoyle watches his own face on the corner of the screen. There are circles around his eyes. His beard is overgrown, his hair more of a mess than usual. He looks tired, like he hasn’t been getting enough sleep.

"Yes," he says. "Yes, that’s true."

She sighs. "Don’t call me again."

She hangs up. A few seconds later, her username turns gray on the menu on the left. He bets she blocked him, after that. He could probably hack into her account to make her unblock him, but that’d take time. She’s a cybersecurity consultant back in Boston. She’s good at it, too. One of the best.

The only reason he got that tracer on her phone was that she trusted him.

-

"I am attracted to you."

Dinesh has a deer-in-the-headlights expression in his face. Gilfoyle is reminded of the day when he saw him kissing Paddington Bear. Probably because that day Dinesh had looked at him just like this, when he realised that Gilfoyle had caught him red-handed. Gilfoyle appreciates the symmetry.

They’re in the office’s kitchenette. He has followed Dinesh there. Okay, it wasn’t ‘following’ him so much as ‘ambushing’ him. Whatever. Semantics. They’re alone at the office, everyone else having left for the day. Well, everyone but Richard and Jared, but those two are busy checking something or other in Richard’s office. Right now, they wouldn’t notice it if a bomb went off under their noses.

And Gilfoyle does feel like he just dropped a bombshell.

"Come again?" Dinesh squeaks.

"I am attracted to you," Gilfoyle repeats. "When I found out I was as baffled as you are right now, trust me."

"That’s. You. What." Dinesh rubs his temples the way he does when he’s getting a migraine. "What the hell are you talking about?"

How ironic, that after weeks of trying to get a reaction out of Dinesh, he gets one now, Gilfoyle thinks. It’s not the one he was hoping for in this particular conversation, though.

"I find you attractive," Gilfoyle enunciates each word carefully, in case Dinesh has turned out to be even more stupid than he previously suspected. "I want to fuck you. Have sex with you. Indulge in the pleasures of the flesh–"

"Stop, stop." Dinesh raises his hands in surrender.

"–with you," Gilfoyle finishes, just to be an asshole.

Dinesh squints at him, blinking. "Are you fucking with me?"

"Not right now, but as stated, it’s on the table," he says, and doesn’t even bother to mask the sarcastic edge from his voice.

"I…" Dinesh sputters. He rubs at the back of his neck. "I have a boyfriend."

Gilfoyle shrugs. "I am not hearing a no."

"You’re a dick to me."

"Still not a no."

"You’re not even gay!" Dinesh screeches.

"On closer inspection, I am probably bisexual." Dinesh is getting a pinched look on his face. It’d be hilarious if the stakes weren’t so high right now. "You have yet to say no."

Dinesh’s brow furrows. "Gilfoyle…"

His expression has turned guarded, Gilfoyle notices. So he must be hiding something.

"You have yet to say no," Gilfoyle repeats.

Gilfoyle pushes himself off the kitchenette’s counter. Dinesh had been leaning back against the fridge, and Gilfoyle takes advantage of that. He rests his hands lazily at both sides of Dinesh’s head, insinuates himself in his personal space without quite touching him. Gilfoyle leans in, lets his eyes linger on Dinesh’s full lips. Lets Dinesh catch him at it. 

Dinesh’s Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. Fuck, how he wants to sink his teeth into that throat.

"You know me," Gilfoyle drawls. "You know my Satanist beliefs. I won’t make a sexual advance unless I’m given a signal."

"Gilfoyle," Dinesh murmurs, sounding lost. He raises an arm. It hovers between their bodies, as if unsure about whether he wants to push Gilfoyle away or pull him closer.

"I think," Gilfoyle pitches his voice dark and low, watches Dinesh shiver in response, "that you want to give me that signal. Am I right?"

Dinesh takes a deep breath. His entire body sways in, closer to Gilfoyle. The space betweem them feels electric. Gilfoyle cups the back of Dinesh’s neck, draws him in.

And before their lips touch, Dinesh says, "You’re racist."

Gilfoyle’s freezes.

Dinesh pushes him back, the hand on his chest firm. "You’re a racist and an asshole,” he says, each word steady, delivered with a steely calm Gilfoyle didn’t know Dinesh to be capable of. “Your idea of having a good time is torturing me for your amusement. I don’t care how good a lay you think you are, it doesn’t make up for that. And that," he adds, giving his chest another firm push, "is a no."

Gilfoyle studies his face. "Do you mean that?"

Dinesh nods, not a hint of doubt in his expression.

Okay.

“Okay.” Gilfoyle releases him. He steps back. "I’ll leave you alone, then."

He leaves the kitchenette. He doesn’t let himself look back.

-

That night, he considers going out. Finding a better club than the last one he went to. Trying to get laid.

He ends up staying home, drinking beer and smoking through his special stash. At four in the morning he texts Tara, drunk and high off his ass.

‘Did you now danish hated me when we wear dating,’ he sends her.

An hour goes by. She doesn’t reply.

Fair enough. He wouldn’t reply to himself, either.

He buys her the most expensive item in her Amazon wishlist.

It's as close to an apology as he'll ever get.

-

The following morning, hungover and more irritated at the world than usual, he walks up to Jared’s desk.

"Just a minute, please," Jared says, lifting a finger. His phone is trapped between one skinny shoulder and one oversized ear. "Sorry, what were you saying?" he asks to whoever is at the other end of the line.

Gilfoyle honestly doesn’t care who he’s talking with. He tunes out most of their conversation and tries to will away his splitting headache. Being in his thirties sucks. He didn’t even use to get hangovers.

"Have a nice day!" Jared says a few minutes later before hanging up. "Okay." He turns to face him, his posture the corporate textbook definition of ‘open and approachable’. "How may I help you today, Gilfoyle?"

"You said you were willing to provide a," he dry heaves a little, swallows it down before he can pull a Richard and vomit in front of everyone, "safe space. To discuss what is on my mind."

Jared’s eyes widen. He springs to his feet, all barely contained energy. It’s like watching one of those dancing inflatable men come to life, all long, flailing limbs. Just looking at him is enough to make Gilfoyle’s migraine worse.

"Of course! I’d be honored to be the receptacle of all your innermost confidences!" Jared says.

Yeah, no. Fuck that noise.

"Nevermind," Gilfoyle spins on his heels. "I’ve changed my mind."

"Gilfoyle, I really think you’d benefit from a frank and honest conversation!" Jared calls out after him.

Gilfoyle ignores him.

-

On the upper level of the building there’s a rooftop terrace. It’s obvious it’s not meant to be visited: the ground is made out of bare concrete slabs covered with water stains, and air conditioning units protrude from it like stout towers, expelling warm air and noise. The perimeter is surrounded by a chain-link fence. The views are dull: there’s only the street a few stories below, around them other terraces just like this one. All in all, the terrace could not be more inhospitable. It’s no wonder people rarely visit it.

There’s also the small fact that, in order to get in, you have to break a lock.

Since they’ve been working here, Gilfoyle has only ever seen one other person in this terrace, and sure enough, there she is. Monica stands by the fence, cigarette between her fingers, looking at the neighbouring buildings like they have personally slighted her. Monica has been their CFO for about a month now. In that time Gilfoyle has gotten to know her better. By now Gilfoyle is familiar enough with her habits to know that she only comes here to smoke when she’s frustrated with something.

"Can I bum a cigarette," he asks as way of greeting as he reaches her.

Without looking at him, she takes out of her purse a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. She hands them to him. Gilfoyle lights one. He takes a long drag of it, lets the smoke fill his lungs and smooth down the itch under his skin.

"Thanks," he says as he gives her back both items.

"Don’t mention it," Monica puts them back in her purse.

"Long day?" he asks her.

The cherry of the cigarette burns bright red as she inhales deeply. She blows two plumes of smoke through her nose. "Fuck. Don’t even ask. Fucking suppliers, see if I renew their contract next quarter."

Gilfoyle chuckles. It’s still weird to hear her curse. Like catching a prim teacher or librarian saying something they shouldn’t. He takes a step forward and grabs at the chain-link fence. The sun is setting, and the sky is turning a faded orange stained red by the smog. Above their heads, a flock of drones fly in V formation.

"Dinesh hates me," he says.

"Oh, go to hell." She rolls her eyes. "No, he doesn’t. God knows why, but he doesn’t."

"He does," he insists. "He told me himself."

Monica rubs at one of her eyelids with her ring finger. "Why are you telling me this, anyway? Don’t Satanists have a rule against it? Not telling your troubles to… Something or other?"

"‘Do not tell your troubles to others unless you are sure they want to hear them,’" Gilfoyle quotes. "Don’t your people have a rule about compassion and loving thy neighbor?"

"Oh, so the instant you need to mope you turn Catholic?" She arches an eyebrow at him.

"Fuck you. I would never." He scowls.

He takes another drag from the cigarette. He releases the smoke slowly and finds himself wishing the cigarette was laced with something else. Something that dulled his senses and made it easier to handle the feeling of loss that has been chasing him ever since Dinesh told him he didn’t want him back.

When has this become his life?

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees her lift her own cigarette to her lips.

"So what exactly did he say?" she asks.

"Oh, you know. That I treat him like shit and that I’m a racist," he says in a flat monotone.

She chuckles. "Hah. To be fair, you are."

He glares at her. "I’m not."

"Oh, come on," she says, turning around to lean back against the fence. "Don’t give me that crap about it being ironic."

"Fact of the matter is, it is ironic." He narrows his eyes at her.

"Fact of the matter is, it doesn’t matter," she says. "You still make our employees think it’s okay to say that stuff around the office. You still make them feel unsafe."

He snorts. "So what. Just because those snowflakes can’t take a joke…"

"That’s not… Nevermind.” She shakes her head. “Look, can I ask you a question? If you don’t believe it, if it’s all a joke, then why keep doing it? By now it’s clear you are the only one who finds it funny, so why not drop it?"

“Alright. I will humor you,” Gilfoyle says. “Say I stopped making those jokes simply because someone doesn’t find them palatable. What would stop them from demanding more of me? Recently Hooli fired one of his employes for expressing an opinion.”

“It wasn’t just an opinion.” Monica transferred her weight from one feet to the other. “He made a public memo where he claimed that men were more biologically suited than women for leadership positions.”

“It’s still someone’s opinion,” Gilfoyle said. “If Hooli’s board of directors disagreed with it, why didn’t they debate the issue with him. Why didn’t they provide their own sources. They could have created a forum to openly discuss these matters. Instead, they choose to censure him.”

“Gilfoyle,” Monica started, “the effect of tolerating something like that on a company’s culture, let alone on the public’s perception of your brand–”

“Fuck company culture. Fuck ‘brand’” Gilfoyle interrupted her. “We live in a world where your life can be ruined by a tweet.”

“Don’t be dramatic,” she said.

“A tweet,” Gilfoyle insisted. “Two hundred and eighty characters, and your life is ruined, all because some gender studies tumblr dropout decided that you didn’t conform to her personal rules of what is or isn’t ‘problematic’. What stops it from becoming institutionalized? What stops the NSA or the CIA from persecuting you from criticizing the government, or expressing something that they deem to be subversive?”

Monica flicks her cigarette, ash falling to the concrete ground. “Trust me, Gilfoyle, I like dogpiling as little as you do,” she says. “And obviously, yes, there’s always the danger of opportunistic politicians. But no one here is calling for a government task force to start vetoing what you are allowed to say. I’m just telling you that can’t expect people to stay silent when you’re being openly racist or sexist. Specially now that people look up to you at Pied Piper. That’s all.”

Gilfoyle crosses his arms. “Isn’t this America? Whatever happened with my freedom of speech?”

“What happened with theirs? ” Monica snaps. “It’s a two way street!” She audibly takes a deep breath. Gilfoyle appreciates that she’s at least trying to be rational about this instead of throwing a hissy fit. He’s always respected her emotional restraint. “Look, forget about racism. If you act like an asshole, people are allowed to tell you you’re being an asshole.”

"Like Dinesh did, you mean," Gilfoyle says, eyebrow arched.

"Yes, Gilfoyle." Monica sighs. "Like Dinesh did. That’s how it works. People are not obligated to spend time with you. They are not obligated to listen to you, or to let you…” she waves her hand, cigarette smoke tracing a parabola in the air, “use company resources so you can get on your soapbox and give a little speech about why you think women shouldn’t be project managers.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes, seriously,” she says, frowning. “Why is this news to you, anyway? You are always talking about important how it’s every man for himself. I didn’t expect you to act like people owe you something.”

On the street, a car driver honks their horn. Monica takes one last drag from her cigarette and drops it on the ground. She crushes it under her heeled shoe.

Gilfoyle breaks the silence.

"What if I want Dinesh to stop thinking I’m an asshole?"

Monica watches him in silence for a long time, brow furrowed as she studies his face. He wonders what she’s looking for there. Remorse? Contrition? Whatever it is, he doubts she finds it.

"Oh, Gilfoyle. That’s really all you care about, isn’t it." She looks up at the skies, possibly mentally asking an indifferent God why she’s being tried like this. "Okay, this might seem extreme, but hear me out."

He stubs his cigarette on one of the metal posts of the fence and turns to face her. "I’m all ears."

"What if," she says slowly, "you were nice to him?"

-

The tickets fall on Dinesh’s keyboard like leaves on the sidewalk. Dinesh picks them up.

"What is this?" he asks, turning on his chair to face Gilfoyle, standing next to him.

"I assume you can still read," Gilfoyle says tonelessly.

Dinesh takes the tickets. "Why are you showing me two tickets to Palo Alto’s Drone Racing League’s semifinals? Are you trying to rub it in my face that you have a social life and I don’t? Because newsflash, asshole, I have a boyfriend now!"

"Your ability to misunderstand every situation never ceases to me astound me," Gilfoyle rolls his eyes. "The tickets are for you. Or rather, for us. I want you to come with me to that race."

Dinesh’s eyes flicker through about two dozen competing emotions before settling on confusion.

"I have a boyfriend," he repeats, cautious.

"I’m not asking you out on a date. I’m asking you to hang out. As a," Gilfoyle grimaces, "friend."

Dinesh turns the tickets around, scratches at the QR code with a nail as if to… what? Check that the tickets are real?

Actually, that’d be one hell of a joke. He’ll have to remember that one for later.

"What’s the catch?" Dinesh asks him.

"No catch. Do you want to go or not?" Gilfoyle arches an eyebrow at him.

Dinesh still hesitates, even though Gilfoyle knows for a fact that this is the kind of nerdy shit he loves to do. But apparently not enough to go with Gilfoyle.

"Whatever," Gilfoyle says, after Dinesh stays silent for what feels like a whole minute. Better to cut his loses and leave while his dignity is still intact. "Keep both tickets. Go with the mole instead. I don’t care."

He’s turning around to leave when–

"Wait."

Dinesh stands up behind him.

Gilfoyle’s heart is not drumming in his chest. He’s not holding his breath. He’s not having anything that might even resemble an emotional reaction to this, because he doesn’t care.

He doesn’t.

"I’ll go with you," Dinesh says. "As friends."

Gilfoyle nods, but doesn’t turn around. "Great," he says sarcastically. "See you this Saturday at the arena."

He makes a strategic retreat to the bathroom and once again wonders when this became his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: References to canonical abusive and stalking behavior in the context of a romantic relationship (remember that time Gilfoyle spied on Tara?), heavy-handed political commentary, real-life cases of sexism and racism, twitter culture.


	3. The One with the Call-Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gilfoyle learns two things about himself, and someone else gets a wake up call.
> 
> Or: Dinesh and Gilfoyle's super geeky not-date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is the most triggery one yet. As always there's a full list of triggers at the bottom.

The drone race is going to take place is in a converted warehouse in the outskirts of Palo Alto. Gilfoyle gets there on an Uber. The building has been decorated with promotional banners from the sort of energy drinks that heavily use the word 'XTREME!' to advertise themselves. He definitely sees a couple of ads for Homicide Energy Drink hanging from the walls. Someone is blasting some kind of god-fucking-awful dubstep mix in the parking lot to get people pumped. Although Gilfoyle has arrived early, there is already a long line of people waiting to enter, several burly security men at the door scanning people’s e-tickets.

Dinesh is getting out of his Tesla when Gilfoyle reaches him.

"Hey," Gilfoyle nods his head at him.

"Hey," Dinesh greets him. "Just a second, let me get my power bank."

As Dinesh rummages inside his messenger bag to find the battery, Gilfoyle takes the opportunity to give him an once over. Dinesh looks...

Dinesh looks like he always does, really. He didn't dress up at all. He's wearing one of those striped rugby shirts of his as well as vomit-colored corduroys. Gilfoyle has always known fashion to be a farce designed to control the masses, but even he can tell Dinesh looks like crap.

He would still fuck the living headlights out of him. 

What the fuck is wrong with him.

"Okay." Dinesh checks his phone to make sure that it’s charging correctly and nods. "We can go."

"Why didn't you just plug it to your car? Doesn't it have a USB port?" Gilfoyle asks as they join the line to enter the building.

"Of course it does, but I don't like using it to charge my phone. It reduces the Tesla’s autonomy."

"So you bought a smartphone model infamous for running out of battery quickly, and you can't charge it in your car because it also runs on electricity," Gilfoyle automatically says, and then stops himself. Fuck. He's antagonizing Dinesh. During a not-date where he is trying to prove to him that he's not an asshole. Shit. He's really not cut out to be nice.

But maybe he doesn't have to do be, because Dinesh doesn't miss a beat. "Hey, remind me, what happened with that piece of junk you used to drive? Oh, that's right! It broke down!" He says, delighted by Gilfoyle’s bad luck.

Gilfoyle narrows his eyes at him. "It's not my fault the battery wasn't meant for long-distance travel."

"Oh, you're right, it's not your fault that a modded monstrosity you got off Craiglist turned out to be a piece of shit," Dinesh shots back.

"At least I got that car for three thousand dollars. How much did you have to pay to repair the Tesla's bumper, again?"

And just like that, they're bickering like they haven't since long before Dinesh started dating Sir Elton John. Apparently it’s okay to tease Dinesh, just so long as he doesn’t say anything "racist". Seems to him like an arbitrary distinction, but whatever. If it’s what it takes, he'll do it. Gilfoyle is not stupid. He’s okay with self-censure, if it serves a greater purpose.

As they get into the warehouse, still squabbling, Gilfoyle realizes something. 

He had missed this.

-

The drone race is dorky as hell. A bunch of nerds who are taking this way too seriously stand on a raised platform, making their drones go around in circles for thirty minutes. It’s unbearably lame.

It’s also chaotic as hell, drones crashing against the walls or against each other as their pilots lose control of them. The audience is going crazy, screaming names and getting up on their seats to see the race better. It’s loud and stupid and unapologetically geeky. 

Gilfoyle can’t wait to do this again.

-

When they get out of the warehouse-slash-arena, it’s starting to get dark outside. Dinesh and him are chatting about the race, walking together. They’re shoulder to shoulder, their bodies having gravitated close at some point. It’s not unpleasant.

"Oh, man, did you see when that drone flew by that guy and nearly chopped his ear off?" Dinesh says. "How epic was that?"

"Not as epic as when the bald pilot threw his remote control at the referee," Gilfoyle says, chucking.

"Oooh, yeah, that was amazing!" Dinesh bursts out laughing. 

Dinesh has such an obnoxious laugh. It’s funny, Gilfoyle thinks, because Dinesh is usually so self-conscious about everything. But when Dinesh laughs, it’s like he forgets his self-imposed quest to try to look cool and self-important. He throws his head back and claps his hands, careless about how loud he’s being. Dinesh laughs like it’s his birthright. Gilfoyle loves him.

He stops on the spot. Dinesh, who had been leaning on him, almost loses his balance.

"Hey. Are you okay?" Dinesh says.

And Gilfoyle loves him.

Oh, fuck. He does. He loves him. It isn’t just that he wants to raw him, or corrupt him, or shut him up with either his mouth or his dick. At some point he fell in love with the little troll. How did that happen? 

Dinesh touches his arm. Gilfoyle jerks away.

Okay. Okay, so he’s in love with him. He won’t hide from his feelings, however pathetic they are. Do what thou wilt. He has lived his life according to that principle, and he’ll continue to do so. And if that involves pining after Dinesh like a lovesick idiot...

“Gilfoyle?” Dinesh asks. “What’s wrong, man?”

"Nothing." Gilfoyle shakes his head. “You want to go eat something? Or is Best of the Beatles going to freak out if you're not home before ten?"

"I'm allowed to hang out with my friends," Dinesh says petulantly. And then he seems to realize that he just opened himself to mockery by calling Gilfoyle that. His eyes widen in panic. "You said we are friends!" he scrambles to justify himself. "You said it yourself! You don't get to tease me for saying that, now!” He hesitates. “We… we are friends, right?"

"Of course we're friends, you idiot." Gilfoyle rolls his eyes.

Dinesh raises an eyebrow. He’s probably waiting for the other shoe to drop. Gilfoyle stays silent. Slowly, Dinesh smiles.

"We're friends," Dinesh repeats, soft and wondering, like he unwrapped an unexpected gift only to find everything he had ever wanted inside the box.

Fuck, he's gorgeous.

Gilfoyle hates him for it.

But apparently he also loves him, so.

"Whatever. I saw a diner on my way here. You can drive us there in your RC car." Gilfoyle says, dragging his feet as he walks toward the Tesla.

"Joke is on you, RC cars are awesome." Dinesh unlocks the car and Gilfoyle sits on the passenger seat.

Gilfoyle, whose first experience with a soldering iron was when he assembled a RC car from scratch as a kid, says, "Yeah. I'm sure you think they are."

-

It becomes an habit. They start hanging out outside of work. It's strange. Back at the Hacker Hostel they were always on top of each other, but Gilfoyle used to tell himself that it was out of convenience. They lived together, worked together and shared many of the same hobbies. It made sense to do things together. It didn’t mean that they were friends, or even that they particularly liked each other.

Now it's different, though. Now he's finally admitted to himself that he enjoys Dinesh’s company. 

So they go to tech meetups in the Valley area, or to the only local record store in California that hasn’t banned Gilfoyle yet, or to the coffee shop around the corner. Sometimes he even lets Dinesh drag him to a karaoke bar, and it’s… fun. He gets to mock Dinesh’s terrible taste in music. And Dinesh looks genuinely happy on stage, for all he can’t sing worth shit.

Mostly, though, they go back to one of their apartments to play video games. They usually end up at Gilfoyle's studio, because Dinesh is still living with the mole. Gilfoyle doesn't have a couch–in fact, one of the reasons he choose this apartment is that there's absolutely no space in it to entertain guests–so they often end up sitting at the foot of his unmade bed, trading insults as they play. Gilfoyle conveniently 'forgets' to mention that he owns a folding chair Dinesh could sit on instead, and Dinesh doesn't seem to remember that he could play from his own apartment using the online mode.

Occasionally Dinesh will mention something Marks & Spencer said or did. When he does, Gilfoyle teases him about it–not saying anything homophobic, never saying anything homophobic. And, fuck, do you have any idea how much self-restrain it takes to not call him Captain Ponce?–and eventually Dinesh learns to stops mentioning Ed Sheeran around him. 

Gilfoyle doesn't know whether Dinesh suspects why it bothers him so much to hear about his boyfriend. Dinesh does know Gilfoyle is attracted to him, of course, but it’s unclear whether he has figured out that Gilfoyle also has feelings for him. If Dinesh has, he never mentions it.

They're both getting better at not hitting below the belt.

-

A notification appears on Gilfoyle’s screen at work.

‘9:30. Meeting?’

It’s from Logan, one the engineers in his team. It’s actually nine twenty-six, but he probably wants to get their daily meeting done so he can go have an hour-long coffee break. Gilfoyle rolls his eyes. He never thought he’d felt any sympathy for clock-humpers and corporate types, but Logan almost makes him understand them. Sure, Gilfoyle himself takes his sweet time finishing his coffee and cereal in the morning, but unlike Logan, he doesn’t routinely turn in his code late.

With a sigh, Gilfoyle picks up his laptop. "Alright, everyone. Time for the daily scrum," he announces.

The other members of his team grab their own computers and tablets and follow him. Through the glass wall of the conference room he can see Dinesh is wrapping up his own meeting with his team. 

He knocks on the glass door. Dinesh lifts his eyes from his computer screen. Gilfoyle taps his wrist in the universal gesture for ‘you’re late’.

Dinesh flips him off and continues with the meeting, but a minute or so later everyone in the conference room starts gathering their things. Dinesh is the one to open the door. They nod at each other as he passes by Gilfoyle.

Gilfoyle leaves his computer on the desk and drags his whiteboard to center of the room. He grabs a stack of sticky notes and a pen.

"Alright. You know the drill." As his team stands around the table, Gilfoyle places a note on the whiteboard to replace one that has fallen off. "Tell me what you worked on yesterday, what you’ll work on today, and what is keeping you from doing your jobs. Let’s get this going, we already wasted too much time waiting for Dinesh to finish."

"Yeah," Logan chimes in, "someone should get Koothrappali a watch."

There’s a chorus of half-hearted laughs from the other coders. 

Gilfoyle turns around. He narrows his eyes at Logan. "What did you just say."

"You know. Koothrappali. Like the Indian guy from Big Bang Theory," Logan explains.

"Dinesh," Gilfoyle says slowly, "is Pakistani."

"So?" Logan shrugs, chuckling. "Indian, Paki, it’s all the same, right?"

The others are not laughing anymore. Unlike Logan, they’ve catched up. 

Gilfoyle always knew Logan was the weak link.

"Wow. Incredible," Gilfoyle deadpans. "I don’t know what I should roast you for first. Liking Big Bang Theory, or your terrible grasp of geography."

"Big Bang Theory is a great show," Logan starts to say, "Sheldon is–"

"No one cares," Gilfoyle interrupts him. "Don’t call Dinesh a Paki." He turns to face the whiteboard. "Now back to the meeting—"

"Why shouldn’t I?" Logan, who obviously has some kind of death wish, insists. "You are always saying stuff like that."

Gilfoyle turns around once again. He caps his pen. "I do not."

"You called him a towelhead the other day.”

Gilfoyle did indeed call him something like that. It was a few weeks ago, before he started making an effort to avoid racist jokes. Gilfoyle didn’t think anyone would remember that, by now.

Now he wonders how many people at the office do.

“That was different,” Gilfoyle tries for nonchalance, but he can recognize he’s no longer in control of the situation.

Logan snorts. "Sure. Whatever you say, buddy."

“It was,” Gilfoyle says, and realizes he doesn’t know who he’s trying to convince, Logan or himself. “Just don’t say stuff like that.” It sounds weak even to his own ears. Hypocritical. Do as I say not as I do. 

He’s not surprised when it’s not enough to shut Logan up. “Oh, come on,” he says. “I thought you of all people would get it. I’m just being ironic!”

Gilfoyle has never believed the stories about people’s lives flashing in front of their eyes before they die. He had always thought they were just that: stories. Tales for the gullible and the stupid, created in an attempt to coerce them into repressing their natural leanings under pain of facing all their so-called sins in their final moments. However, now Gilfoyle thinks there might be some truth to those tales, because every single race joke he’s made in his life is coming back now to haunt him. 

Somewhere Monica is probably having a laugh at his expense.

“Logan,” Gilfoyle says, making sure to enunciate each word, “I couldn’t care less what justification you use to rationalize your actions.” Gilfoyle puts the his hands on the table between them and leans forward. “Do not call Dinesh a Paki. End of story.

Logan seems unimpressed. “Really? What happened to the First Amendment? You know, freedom of speech?"

Gilfoyle closes his eyes. He takes a deep breath, in through his nose, out through his mouth. When he opens his eyes, he’s sure his face is once again inexpressive.

"I am Canadian." He straightens up. "Report back to HR. Tell Jared I’ve signed you up for a workshop on racial sensitivity, or safe spaces, or whatever it is he’s working on."

Logan sputters. "But—"

"Go." He points at Jared through the glass wall.

Jared, who has terrible timing and no sense of the dramatic, chooses that moment to start blowing his nose.

"Seriously?" Logan gapes at him. "Come on. I thought you were cool."

"Clearly we have fundamentally different definitions of what being cool entitles," Gilfoyle drawls. "What are you still doing here?"

Logan remains where he is. He looks at the other occupants of the room, as if seeking their support, but Danny, Mark and Keith stay silent. Gilfoyle stands firm, arms crossed and chin up. Slowly, as if he can’t quite believe what just happened, Logan turns around and turns the doorknob. As he exits he slams the door of the conference room behind himself so hard that the glass walls rattle. Gilfoyle follows him with his eyes as he walks up to Jared’s table. He sees Logan and him exchange a few words, and then watches as Jared springs to his feet, looking for all the world like his birthday came in early.

The other coders are looking at him, now. Tentatively, in Danny and Mark’s cases. Through the corner of his eyes, in Keith’s. They are waiting to see what he’ll do next. If this is what people mean when they say he’s now a role model, it sucks major balls. But alright. He’ll do it.

"That goes for you guys, too," Gilfoyle says. "If I catch you making racist comments I’ll make Jared talk your ear off. In fact, let everyone know. No racist crap. No sexist crap. Nothing that might hurt a sensitive millennial’s feelings. We don’t tolerate that shit in Pied Piper. Got it?"

The three coders nod.

"Good. Now where were we?" He rips a new note from the stack and sticks it to the whiteboard.

Danny tells him about the problems he’s been having with a subroutine he’s working on. No one dares say a single word about what just happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes:
> 
> Racist language, anti-pakistan and anti-indian language, islamphobia, some very mild homophobia.
> 
> On the other hand two bigots gets schooled, so hey, it's not all bad!


	4. The One with the Karaoke

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Betaed by the superb anactoriatalksback. All remaining mistakes are my own.

Chapter 4

Dinesh is on stage, singing his heart out. Gilfoyle is impressed.

It's impressive how he hasn't managed to hit a single note so far.

Gilfoyle raises his bottle of beer to his lips. They don't have his favorite brand here, but they do have a Soviet-inspired novelty beer that tastes like vodka. The first time they came to this karaoke Gilfoyle ordered it ironically, but since then it has grown on him. Plus, he loves how worked up Dinesh gets whenever he orders it. He always starts ranting about how Gilfoyle is a pretentious Satanist hipster. It's hilarious.

Turns out Gilfoyle doesn't even have to be that much of an asshole to get a reaction out of Dinesh. It’s nice to know.

Dinesh is reaching the chorus. It’s a song by Journey, because Dinesh has the same music taste as either a middle-aged white dad or whoever choose Glee’s soundtrack. He's really hamming it up, too, falling to his knees, waving the arm not holding the microphone around as he wails the lyrics. What a loser. 

Satan, Gilfoyle really fucking loves the idiot.

The song comes to an end. Dinesh stumbles to his feet. He bows as the less than enthused audience applauds. He puts the microphone back on its stand and gets off the stage. Two girls take his place and start singing a Nine Inch Nails song.

Dinesh walks to the booth at the back that has, somehow, become their usual table, and sits opposite Gilfoyle once again. 

"Did you see that? I was on fire!" Dinesh is practically squirming on his seat, he's so hyper.

"Yes. Fire did come to mind as you performed," Gilfoyle deadpans. "Specifically, I was considering setting this place on fire to end everyone's suffering."

"Oh, fuck off," Dinesh says with a grin. "I was great! I was channeling the spirit of Neal Schon himself!" 

"That is concerning, because as far as I know Neal Schon is still alive.”

Dinesh laughs. He takes his glass—he's drinking something yellow that could be Fanta and vodka, but probably is some sort of juice-based cocktail—and wraps his lips around the straw to drink.

Gilfoyle hates himself for how the sight of it that makes his mouth go dry.

"What should I sing next?" Dinesh grabs the song list. It's in a beat-up binder, sticky from countless drinks being spilt on it. "You should come on stage with me this time." 

"Yeah, I think I’ll pass." 

"Oh, come on!" Dinesh pages through the binder. "We've been coming here for weeks and you still haven't sang once. It's bullshit. Weren't you in a bunch of bands back in Canada or something?"

"Yes. As a drummer," Gilfoyle says. "And somehow I don't think they have any deathcore in their catalogue."

"They do! Check it out, they have Metallica!" Dinesh shoves the binder at him and points at the name printed on the sheet of paper.

Gilfoyle pushes the binder away. "I am not even going to dignify that with an answer."

"Sounds to me like you just did!" Dinesh goes back to flicking through the pages. "Does Radiohead count as deathcore?"

"No."

"Rammstein?"

"Closer, but no."

"REM?"

Gilfoyle pauses. "You're fucking with me." Dinesh eyes are bright, crinkling at the corners as he struggles to hold back a smile. "You _are_ fucking with me. Dick." He reaches across the table to punch him in the arm.

"Ow,” Dinesh snickers. “Careful there, or I'll report you to HR!"

Gilfoyle's good mood dissipates. He looks away, at the two girls still on stage. They are doing a frankly terrible job of dancing to the beat of the song. One of them is waving around her microphone like it's a lasso. "I take it you heard about Logan.”

"It's all everyone around the office is talking about." Dinesh is still smiling, but there's something different about his demeanor. He's looking at Gilfoyle consideringly, like he's a problem he doesn't know how to solve yet. Or maybe not a problem. Maybe... an unknown entity. "You made him go to one of Jared's diversity workshops and he quit. No one knows what to make of it."

"You mean you don't know what to make of it," Gilfoyle corrects him.

“You have to admit it’s a bit weird. You aren't exactly Mister PC." Dinesh says. "In fact, you are more likely to make fun of PC people."

"That is not inaccurate." It doesn’t seem to be like enough of an answer for Dinesh. Gilfoyle sighs. He didn't want to have to get into this. "He called you Koothrappali," he says. When Dinesh shows no signs of caring, he adds, "You know. Like the guy from Big Bang Theory.”

Dinesh gasps in mock outrage. "He compared me with a character from Big Bang Theory? We should have fired him on the spot!"

Gilfoyle rolls his eyes. "He was being racist." Dinesh continues to look unaffected. "He called you a Paki."

Dinesh's eyes get clouded for a second, but then he blinks and there he is again, still looking calm and cheerful as ever. "So?"

He really has gotten so much better at masking his reactions, Gilfoyle thinks.

Gilfoyle examines the label of his bottle like it’s an interesting piece of code. "It's not right. It's a slur. A trigger word. Whatever it is they call it."

"Oh, sure." Dinesh shrugs. "You've said worse stuff in the past, though."

Gilfoyle releases a breath through his nose. "I know."

It feels like he's dragging the words screaming and kicking through gravel. It feels too close to admitting he was wrong. Actually, it probably counts as admitting he was wrong, but Gilfoyle cannot conceptualize it like that. If he does, he doesn't think he'll be able to have this conversation. Not without preemptively insulting Dinesh, anyway. Can’t let him get too smug.

But Dinesh doesn’t respond to it the way he expects him to. "Wow," he snorts. "You're really committing to this, aren't you?"

Gilfoyle arches an eyebrow, feeling like he just missed part of the conversation. "What the hell are you talking about."

"Oh, you know." Dinesh gestures with his the straw. "Acting all nice and stuff. I mean, don't get me wrong. I'm enjoying the hell out of it. But I'm not going to cheat on Liam just for that."

"I didn't want you to cheat on him, I wanted you to break up with him and date _me_ ," Gilfoyle shots back. Dinesh’s flippancy evaporates. He looks genuinely surprised now, his dark eyes wide, his lips pursed. Wait. What the hell—"You thought I wanted you to cheat on him? Really?"

"You were all in my personal space!" Dinesh says defensively. "You didn't say anything about a relationship. And you're polyamorous, so..."

"Poly doesn't mean cheating. When you enter an open relationship, you start a commitment with yourself to..." Gilfoyle stops himself. "Nevermind. You don't care about any of this, and you are pathologically incapable of anything but monogamy, either way."

"And knowing that, you would have dated me anyway?" Dinesh asks, incredulous.

"Yes," Gilfoyle replies.

Dinesh goes silent.

The girls hop off the stage. A guy with long hair and a ponytail replaces them. The first chords of Sinatra’s version of My Way come out of the speakers.

"If you had known I was offering you a relationship," Gilfoyle says, "a monogamous one, at that. Would your answer have been different?"

Dinesh frowns at his drink. As he should. It's a sugary monstrosity and Dinesh should get a real drink instead.

"No. I love Liam,” he says, firmly. “And," Dinesh licks his lips. "He has taught me something. He's taught me that I deserve to be treated well. That I shouldn't have to put up with..." he trails off.

"With the way I treated you," Gilfoyle finishes for him.

Dinesh nods.

"Okay," Gilfoyle says. "That's fair. I was a dick to you."

Dinesh nods. He places the glass back on the table. "But honestly?" He's avoiding Gilfoyle eyes, still. "If you had asked me before Liam, I probably would have said yes. I mean. Assuming I wasn't still so far in the closet I was selling real estate in Narnia."

"Fuck." Gilfoyle sits back. "Your standards used to be very low, huh."

Dinesh lifts one shoulder. "They had to be. I was in my thirties and people only wanted to be friends with me to steal corporate secrets."

Gilfoyle is going to have a personal talk with the Mole. Destroying his stuff with a nail gun clearly wasn't punishment enough. "It's shitty that you think that."

"It's shitty that it was true. Oh well!" he adds with false cheer. "What are you going to do about it? Now," he turns a page in the binder, "what should I sing next? I'm thinking Devo."

They could leave it at that. It’s a natural—or, at least, semi-forced—end to the conversation. Now Gilfoyle could make fun of Dinesh’s taste in music and watch Dinesh’s get red in the face as he defends some mediocre musician he probably doesn’t even feel that strongly about. They could go back to this easy, light banter that doesn’t sting. Let Dinesh’s rejection scab over.

But Gilfoyle doesn’t want to leave things there. "Dinesh?"

"Mmh?" Dinesh says, finger moving over the list of songs.

"You did the right thing, turning me down," Gilfoyle says. "You do deserve better. I’m glad that Liam taught you that."

Dinesh’s eyes widen.

On stage, ponytail guy is drunkenly singing the final lines of My Way. Gilfoyle thinks ponytail guy might be tearing up, but he’s too far away to tell for sure. There’s a small crowd gathering around him. The music swells, and with one last weepy "Yes, it was my way", the song comes to an end. Ponytail guys gets off the stage, unsteady on his feet. Three girls take his place and ‘Sweet Home Alabama’ starts.

Dinesh is still staring at him in silence. 

Gilfoyle shifts in his seat and grabs onto his bottle of beer like he wants to either throw it at someone or use it as a shield against him. He clears his throat. "Ever noticed how whenever we come here people are always rotating between the same songs?” he says. “They should throw away that binder and print out a list with ten songs, name it ‘Congratulations, you’ve never had an original thought in your life’."

Dinesh doesn’t get the hint. "You aren’t just being nice to me so I’ll sleep with you," he says, like an epiphany.

Irritated, Gilfoyle mutters, "I thought we had already established that.”

Dinesh shakes his head. "No, I mean… You aren’t just pretending. You… you really are trying to be less of an asshole."

He looks touched. Perhaps even… impressed, in a way that implies that he didn’t think Gilfoyle had it in him to be anything but scum. Gilfoyle isn’t sure how to feel about that. He isn’t sure why he should particularly care, realy. When did it start to matter what Dinesh thinks of him? 

Oh, right. When he fell in love with him like a loser.

Gilfoyle scratches at the label of his bottle with a thumbnail. "I wasn’t, before. I only wanted you to hang out with me. Didn’t particularly care if I had to play nice to get you to do it. Means to and end.” He twists his mouth. “Guess I missed having someone to make fun of.”

"Hah." Dinesh doesn’t even look offended. "What made you want to be less shitty for real?"

"I had this conversation with Monica. You know. About how the way I acted made others think it was okay to be… racist, or whatever." Gilfoyle starts peeling the label. It doesn’t come out cleanly, bits of glue and paper sticking to the glass. He hates when that happens. He should have done this sooner, while the bottle was still wet with condensation. "I didn’t believe her. Or I didn’t care. I don’t know which. But then…"

"Logan," Dinesh says.

"Yeah."

On stage, one of the girls has started puking. One of her companions helps her while the other continues exhorting the wonders of Alabama, oblivious to what’s happening around her.

Gilfoyle and Dinesh watch as one of the waiters lug a bucket and a mop on stage. The bouncer shows up to kicks the girls’ entire party out of the karaoke. The group protests, and the room fills with drunken arguments and screaming before the bouncer ushers them out. 

Eventually, Dinesh and Gilfoyle get up and leave, too.

-

Five months after he first time he saw Dinesh kiss a man, Gilfoyle gets a notification on his way to the office.

Dinesh has changed his Facebook status to 'Single'.

"Hey," he says to the Uber driver behind the wheel, "can you hurry it along? I'm late for work."

"The stoplight is red," the man points out.

Gilfoyle makes eye contact with him on the rear-view mirror. "I'll tip you fifty bucks if you get me there in ten minutes."

Five minutes later, he’s entering the building.

When he arrives to the office, Dinesh is sitting by Priyanka, both of them leaning over her computer.

"I’ve checked it five times but the compiler keeps returning that error," she's explaining.

"Mmh." Dinesh frowns at the screen, tapping his chin with one finger as he thinks. “I think Richard might have made those changes he suggested in yesterday’s meeting.”

She goggles at him. "...but he agreed it was a terrible idea! That whole branch depends on that subroutine. He wouldn’t change it without warning us, would he?"

Dinesh sits back on his chair. "Oh, he would. He can get a bit Genghis Khan when it comes to this stuff."

"He's more of an Attila," Gilfoyle says. Dinesh blinks up at him, not having noticed he had been standing behind him. "Only with bulimia instead of a horse. Hey. Can we talk in private?"

"Sure." He turns back to Priyanka. "Check and see if it's that, and if you can't make it work we'll see what we can do about it."

Dinesh gets to his feet and follows Gilfoyle into one of the conference rooms. It's the same one where Logan and him had that confrontation, coincidentally enough. Once again, Gilfoyle wishes he could be having this conversation somewhere that didn't have glass walls.

"What is it?" Dinesh asks him as Gilfoyle closes the door.

"You are single," Gilfoyle states.

"Oh. Oh, that." Dinesh sighs. "Yeah, I had to break up with Liam." He rubs the back of his own neck. "Remember how he does that thing? The Diversity Awareness talks?"

Gilfoyle has spent the last four months mocking that aspect of Frodo Baggins to anyone who was willing to listen. And to a few people who weren’t.

"Vaguely," Gilfoyle replies.

"He was getting so annoying about that. He kept getting on my case about how I should be more 'PC'," Dinesh makes finger quotes, "or be more aware of my language or some shit like that. I'm a Pakistani immigrant, what the hell is a white boy doing lecturing me about that?"

"Agreed. Fuck white people," Gilfoyle deadpans.

"And it wasn't even just 'problematic language'," Dinesh rolls his eyes. "He got offended by everything! I tried to make fun of him for how bad he was at Fortnite? And he told me that calling him Not So Big Ben was a microaggression!"

Gilfoyle blinks. "You called your boyfriend Not So Big Ben."

"Ex-boyfriend," Dinesh corrects him. "And yes, I did. I thought it was pretty funny!" he adds defensively.

"Hilarious," Gilfoyle says, with complete honesty. "I don't think anything you've ever said before this moment has ever been funnier."

"Thank you! But he didn’t agree. He was so sensitive!" He grimaces. "He was an okay guy, but if I'm going to date a man it has to be someone who gets my sense of humor, you know? Someone who can give and take."

"Sexual pun intended?" Gilfoyle asks.

"Oh, no, the sex itself was fine."

"Right."

They look at each other in silence.

"You know," Gilfoyle says. "I've always thought your sense of humor was great." Dinesh arches an eyebrow at him, his expression skeptical. "Okay, I've always thought your sense of humor was good." Dinesh crosses his arms. "At least one of your jokes has made me laugh."

"That one is true, yes," Dinesh concedes.

Dinesh might have gotten better at masking his feelings, but he’s doing a terrible job of it now. It’s the eyes. Those brown eyes can’t help but give his every thought away. Looking at them now, Gilfoyle knows Dinesh is waiting for something.

Maybe he’s waiting for Gilfoyle.

Gilfoyle takes a deep breath. "I told you I was attracted to you."

"I remember," Dinesh says. “You also told me you wanted to date me.”

"I did." Gilfoyle confirms. He clears his throat, "I think that I might have feelings for you."

"I," Dinesh's voice breaks. "I think I might have feelings for you, too."

Gilfoyle takes a step closer and so does Dinesh. Gilfoyle rests his hands on Dinesh’s hips. Dinesh lets out a shaky breath. and wraps his arms around Gilfoyle’s neck, draws him close.

"I'm going to kiss you now," Gilfoyle says. "Okay?"

Dinesh glances to his right, at the coders behind the glass wall. "In front of everyone?"

Gilfoyle arches an eyebrow. "Do you care?"

Dinesh grins. He looks down at Gilfoyle’s lips, eyes dark. "No. Fuck, no."

Gilfoyle crosses that last inch and kisses him. 

It feel like the first drag of that cigarette you had been craving all day, like the warmth of good bourbon on the pit of his stomach. It feels like the thrill of picking on Dinesh and having him _push back_ , matching him word for word. They kiss like the last five years of arguing where only foreplay: Dinesh gripping at his shirt, Gilfoyle grabbing at his ass, bodies pushing together, lips and teeth and hunger.

When they pull back they stay close, foreheads touching and eyes still closed as they gasp, trying to catch their breath.

"Fuck," Dinesh murmurs.

"Fuck, yeah," Gilfoyle agrees.

"You think they saw us?" Dinesh sounds gleeful at the idea. Gilfoyle would be lying if he told you he doesn’t feel the same way. 

"Yeah," Gilfoyle says, smug. "Definitely."

Dinesh and Gilfoyle open their eyes.

Behind the glass walls, everyone is working, typing away at their computers or chatting among themselves as if nothing had happened.

"What the hell? They see us kissing and they don't care?" Dinesh says, affronted. He opens the door of the conference room. "Hey! Everybody!" he yells, sticking his head out. "Gilfoyle and I just kissed! And we're probably going to do it again!"

Priyanka looks away from her computer long enough to yell back, "We don't care!"

"Amazing," Dinesh says, closing the door once again. "Can you believe that?"

"Fucking Millennials." Gilfoyle shakes his head.

"I know!" Dinesh huffs.

"Hey," Gilfoyle tugs him close once again. "Want to see what it takes to get a reaction out of them?"

Dinesh grins. "Fuck, _yes._ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe this story is over! Thanks to all the people who read and commented, you kept me going when Gilfoyle seemed irredeemable and I wanted to quit writing 4ever.
> 
> As always, all feedback is very welcome!

**Author's Note:**

> N/A: This story includes the following triggers: racism, islamophobia, homophobia, sexism, xenophobia.


End file.
